


Landslide

by voxane



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Future Fic, Gen, Hints of otayuri if you squint, Original Character(s), Potya is still kickin and an old prissy grandma cat, Yuri Plisetsky having a mild career crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 16:22:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16371002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxane/pseuds/voxane
Summary: When Yuri finally acknowledged that the sands in his hourglass were slipping past faster than he was willing to count, it was overcast. The kind of day where clouds muted the sun, and it was so hard to tell if it was morning or afternoon. Yuri was braced for the monotony of the same stretches, the same music on loop, and the same taunting smile Yuuri always gave him when something needed work.There was a harsh speed bump in his daily routine in the form of a child with fluffy hair and shaggy bangs in black warm-up gear.





	Landslide

**Author's Note:**

> I was honored to get the opportunity to represent Yuri P for the Kings On Ice zine! He's one of my favorite characters EVER so I wanted to work hard to do him justice! I took the on-off ice aspect of it fairly literally, and I'm pretty happy with how it came out.
> 
> I hope you Enjoy!

The first time Yuri thought about The End was the day Victor abandoned him. Gossip blogs were atwitter - “ _Could Victor Nikiforov Ever Return to the Ice_?” Every carefree smile in every selfie made it seem like he didn’t think about it with much gravity. That gravity pulled at Yuri’s throat like a ball and chain, as if it dragged his future closer to him. The idea of anything past his skating career loomed over him like storm clouds Yuri refused to acknowledge. He was 15. He had time.

He kept telling himself he had time. There were still mountains to climb, even with Victor’s and Yuuri’s records crushed beneath the blades of his skates. He chanted the thought like a prayer as he watched Victor, Yuuri, Georgi, JJ and even Otabek leave the ice one by one, replaced with fresh faces and green spirits. They were unpolished diamonds that weren’t a threat to Yuri, yet. But time would be harsh on his body, and bountiful to theirs. Not yet. He was 25. He had time.

When Yuri finally acknowledged that the sands in his hourglass were slipping past faster than he was willing to count, it was overcast. The kind of day where clouds muted the sun, and it was so hard to tell if it was morning or afternoon. Yuri was braced for the monotony of the same stretches, the same music on loop, and the same taunting smile Yuuri always gave him when something needed work. It looked like Victor’s and it made Yuri’s stomach churn. He was at least relieved that it was Katsuki he was dealing with rather than Victor himself.

There was a harsh speed bump in his daily routine in the form a child with fluffy hair and shaggy bangs in black warm-up gear. Yuri raised an eyebrow while he scanned the room for Yuuri to demand an explanation. He couldn’t find Yuuri before the child hobbled to him on skate guards with all the enthusiasm of a wild foal.

“You’re Yuri. Yuri Plisetsky,” he spoke with a heavy accent and had bright blue eyes that managed to sparkle even in the tired glow of halogen lights in the rafters. “Um. You’re amazing. Like the best.” His words came out too close together in mashed syllables. It took Yuri a moment to translate it into something coherent.

“Thanks.” Yuri said, the word well-rehearsed. You could measure his talent in trophies behind glass, he wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t a fact. Yuri wanted to say something significantly more obstinate. But even in her oldest bedridden years Lilia still had the energy to scold him for his attitude. The memory of her strained voice made his heart clench, so he bit his tongue.

“All my friends are jealous ‘cause Katsuki’s gonna be my coach.”

The echo of Lilia wasn’t enough to keep Yuri from casting his eyes over the pipsqueak’s head to figure out where the hell Yuuri was. Even with Yuri blatantly ignoring him, the kid kept prattling on. “Even though everyone says your Pyeongchang SP was your best routine, I liked Madness. I want to do it when I get in Seniors, but Yuuri says you wouldn’t let me. But like, it was the coolest. Is it true that you made it up with Otabek Altin?”

The whole thing was dizzying. Yuri hadn’t thought about Madness in years. He misplaced the blazer in one of many moves to different apartments across St. Petersburg. He lost the file of Otabek’s mix when he switched phones. Yuri's throat was in a vice grip when he realized he wasn't sure how many years it had been.

“Horace, don’t be rude, Yurio’s here to practice. You’re going to exhaust him with questions.” Yuuri, as if out of thin air, clapped a hand on Horace’s slender shoulder. “You didn’t even introduce yourself.”

“Oh.” The kid shifted side to side, making no motion to say anything. Yuuri chuckled and shook his head.

“This is Horace Carrefour. He just moved from France. Victor’s seen some of his routines. He has a really good sal, and a lot of potential. I want him to go through Juniors this year.”

“You’re insane, Piggy. There’s barely any time to get together programs for him.” Yuri found his sharp tongue, spitting in familiar acid tones. As incredulous as he sounded, the thing that worried him the most was the idea it could be done.

“Hmm.” Yuuri mused like he hadn’t thought about it. Yuri ground his teeth because he knew it was bullshit. “I think we can do it.”

“We?” Yuri deadpanned, and Horace jumped up.

“I wanna do Agape. Real bad,” he begged. No please attached, but a question nonetheless.

“That’s a lot, kid,” Yuri said, unimpressed.

“I told him the same thing. Even you didn’t perform Agape until Seniors. I’m quickly learning that he wants to look ahead.” The words were for Horace, but Yuuri looked Yuri dead in the eye.

“Now you’re gonna tell me he’s practicing quads against your orders.” Yuri kept his voice flat. Despite it, Horace broke into a lopsided smile full of overeager pride.

“I landed the sal once.” His toothy grin was so bright. The shine smothered Yuuri's exasperated sigh.

“He's a lot like you, Yurio.”

Yuri couldn't tell if it was a compliment or insult. It was probably a little of both; Victor must be rubbing off on him. He sneered in response.

Was this brat supposed to be his replacement? The idea that Yuuri was priming some kid to be the next “Yuri Plisetsky” down to routines left his hands clammy. Something bubbled up in Yuri’s stomach, something that left him frightened. Like when his grandfather was in the hospital during Pyeongchang, or when he had to do a free skate right after Otabek was taken off the ice in a stretcher. It wasn’t something he had felt often enough to name, but he knew he hated it.

“I don’t have time for this.” Yuri clutched the strap of his bag and turned around so fast that his ponytail smacked him in the face. He fussed his skates on with frantic motions and tried to calm his heart beating out of his chest. He felt fascinated eyes trailing his every jump, and it only fueled the palpitations.

* * *

 

Yuri left later than everyone else. Yuuri had to shoo away a straggling Horace when the sky burned orange with sunset. It was dark now, and all the light in the rink was artificial. The glow from lamps above was sickly and suffocating, yet felt too bright against the stars outside or the dim city lights. It was Yuri’s cue that it was time to stop.

He didn’t want to. His heart was still beating double time and it left him with a heavy skull but floating brain. He raked a frustrated hand through his hair as he shoved his belongings into his bag with a single fist, his headphones dangling out the side. Yuri stared at them. When he was younger, he’d bug Otabek for a song when he was frustrated. Yuri found peace in the wailing guitars and raging beats Otabek hand picked for him.

The songs were much more varied nowadays. They had been ever since Otabek made music his full-time job. Yuri stopped asking him for songs because it made his heart ache. Just like he blocked JJ on twitter as a “joke” because he was sick of seeing baby pictures. Or the way he still ignored Victor’s “family dinner” invites under the guise of something much pettier.

He shoved the headphones in with a scowl, debating if he wanted to see if he could scramble to catch a train or spend the time to walk home. He tapped his phone to check the time but instead saw a notification for a tweet Otabek just made. It meant he was awake- Yuri still hadn’t nailed down his inconsistent schedule. Yuri texted furiously as he made his way out of the building, pausing to hit the lights and watch the night flood in through the windows in muffled silence.

_Hey u got a minute_

He sucked in a sharp breath as he let the door slam shut. He felt the vibrations of his phone in time with the deafening sound.

_Of course Yura. It’s been awhile._

He supposed it had. Yuri hit the call icon in Otabek’s contact and turned to take the route to walk home. The moment he heard Otabek pick up, he didn’t let him get a word in.

“Piggy dragged some brat he wants to coach to my rink. Apparently, he’s a fan of mine and wants do Agape.” He heard Otabek’s tinny chuckle, and it made him feel guilty for jumping down his throat.

“He likes you for your personality?” He could hear a grin pulling creases along Otabek’s cheeks.

“Har Har, Altin.” Without realizing, Yuri’s own grin spread across his face. It reminded him that he was running low on moisturizer. “Not even. He likes my medal count.”

“If he was just counting medals he could easily look to Katsuki or Victor.”

Yuri saw his breath in soft white puffs in the cold winter air, he could feel it in his frigid fingertips. It somehow didn’t bother him. He simply gripped his phone harder to see the color return to his skin. He saw tiny snowflakes fluttering against the night sky.

“It feels like he’s replacing me.” Yuri stopped under a lamppost. Admitting it aloud, he realized he was carrying a burden and had just shucked off his back. Otabek was silent.

“What am I gonna do when I’m nothing?”

“There’s more to like about you than your accomplishments. I don’t even know what you’ve won anymore.”

“Fuck off.” Yuri almost meant it. He began to walk again. He felt snowflakes melt in his hair.

“You know what I mean, don’t be an ass. You know you won’t lose friends when you retire.”

Yuri hissed as if the word burned him.

“There’ll be new skaters. But there’ll never be a new Yuri Plisetsky.”

Yuri hummed as he walked, looking at the color of the concrete slowly fade from grey to white. He knew he should say something to Otabek, but the only thing he could think about was how he had always liked the snow.

“Who’s the kid? Is he worthy of your programs?” Yuri couldn’t help but recall phone calls at this time where Otabek’s tones would grow sleepy, and bookended with yawns. It was nice, getting to hear him so sharp and clear.

“Carrefour? Horace. He’s French. I haven't seen him skate, but apparently, he was good enough for Victor to ship over.”

Otabek responded with a distant hum and some rapid keyboard clacks.

“Horace, huh? Fitting.” Otabek mused. Yuri choked back a groan, he hated when Otabek begged the question but he didn’t want to snap at his friend. As if he could hear Yuri’s thoughts, Otabek spoke without prompting. “From the Latin _Hora_ -”

“Oh my god, it’s been so long I forgot what a huge nerd Mr. DJ was.” Yuri cackled into the silent night air. The only sounds were his sharp laughter and the soft crunch of the building snow under his shoes.

“Reminds me. I think I have a song for you. For now. I listened to it a lot when I retired. It helped me recalibrate.”

“Yeah, uh, that’s actually why I called. Kinda. I missed your songs.” Yuri found himself staring at his apartment door. He had no idea how long it took him to get home. Usually, it was a trek, but he was enjoying himself so much he barely noticed. His front steps were buried under a mountain of snow.

“I’ll send it over. Really listen to it, okay?”

“I will, promise. I have to go Beka. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Yuri had turned the key but left his hand resting on the knob.

“It was nice Yuri. Talk to you soon.”

Yuri opened the door, and the warmth of his home covered him like a well-loved blanket.

* * *

 

Yuri flopped onto his bed and sunk into it with a deflated sigh. He heard Potya yowl, scratching a lazy paw at the bedpost.

“I know, grandma. I’m coming.” She screamed a wretched noise before he gingerly placed her on his stomach where she made herself comfortable. Her legs weren’t so great nowadays, but she still loved nothing more than purring rumbles into Yuri’s skin. He weaved his fingers into her thick fur while queuing up the song Otabek sent with his free hand. It opened with weepy plucks of an acoustic guitar, and Yuri frowned.

_Is this gonna b sappy bullshit Altin?_

Potya whined as he moved to dedicate both hands to typing, nudging his wrist for attention all the while.

_Listen, Yura._

Yuri put his phone face down and closed his eyes so he could really feel it, or whatever way he thought he was supposed to listen to music. He took a deep breath as silently as he could, as if any noise would crush the delicate notes into something unrecognizable. It made him acutely aware of how each chord felt like it was tugging at his heartstrings.

This was not the sort of song Yuri would give 15 seconds when he was younger. Something soft and sweet and nothing like him. Or, at least he thought.

A lot of things had changed, and Yuri was just now absorbing it all.

He remembered sticky summers in Almaty heat in the midst of his growth spurt after bombing a season and Otabek having to console him the entire time. Otabek let him get drunk off cheap whiskey, yelling that it was the worst thing that ever happened to him. The next day Yuri paid for his whining and indulgence and claimed he’d never drink again. Yuri remembered returning the favor when Otabek had his career ending accident with a bottle of single malt in hand. Yuri still puked his brains out the next morning. Otabek held back his hair and said it was the most fun he’d had in awhile. Despite the turning of his gut, Yuri was inclined to agree.

He remembered having an honest to god conversation with Jean-Jacques Leroy. Yuri was champagne tipsy at his wedding, and JJ caught him to yell about some errant tweet that he couldn't remember. But they ended talking for almost an hour about life and Yuri would describe it as fun until JJ admitted that Bella was pregnant, and he was retiring. He prattled on about how he hoped his child would skate too, but Yuri only half listened as he tried to drown the lump in his throat with more drink.

Even today, he thought, he’d changed. Horace probably had no idea he turned Yuri completely inside out.

Horace didn’t make him uncomfortable just as a replacement, but as a reflection. Yuri hadn't had that kind of wide-eyed enthusiasm when he was Horace's age, but Yuri thought they'd felt the same things. If he'd had the luxury in his youth to take his sights off victory for a moment, he would’ve looked at Victor with the same kind of adoration. Yuri wondered if he’d disappoint Horace in the same way. He wondered if he could prevent it.

The song made his chest tight, but he didn’t dislike it. It was somewhere between the strained scolding of Lilia and new lively spring in Otabek’s youthful key of Nineteen. In the way that he somehow missed Yakov’s screaming but couldn’t deny Yuuri had been the best coach he ever had. It sounded like rolling into whatever club Otabek was playing at, just because he had the time. It sounded like the potential of Horace kicking the shit out of whatever Leroy brat was climbing through Juniors. Every raw note rang through Yuri, and he knew that he couldn’t let Horace down.

Maybe changing wasn’t so bad. Just different.

It stung where he had screwed his eyes shut tightly. Potya pawed at his face, her paws wet. Yuri didn’t even realize he was crying.

“Fuck.” He brought a hand to his face as if the tears were some kind of illusion.

“He was right,” he murmured to Potya, shifting over to grab his cell phone from where it was tangled in his sheets and mashed out a text to Otabek.

_It made me cry you fuck_

_I’m glad you liked it._

Otabek punctuated the text with a thumbs up emoji. Yuri sent a middle finger for old time’s sake.

His eyes felt tired in the glow of his phone screen. He had to turn his gaze as he fumbled for Yuuri’s contact. He took a deep breath before hitting call.

“Yurio, do you have any idea what time it is-”

Yuri immediately cut through Yuuri’s sleep slurred syllables.

“I’m sorry.” He could almost see Yuuri’s taken aback face. “Tell Victor I can make it for dinner next Friday, I got his texts. I was just....busy.”

“Did you really call just for that?” He had that I-know-something-you-don’t-know tone, and it still made Yuri bashful all these years later.

“Yeah. Tell that kid I’ll teach him Agape. Under one condition.” Yuri propped himself up on his elbows. Moonlight spilled through his window pane, and his medals seemed to glow in its cool light. Yuri wasn’t sure he ever noticed how pretty it was. “He has to get through Juniors without quads.”

“I think that’s a great start. I’ll see you tomorrow, Yurio.” There was a certain bemusement in Yuuri’s voice. Yuri was sure the significance of the bargain wasn’t lost on him.

“See you tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it.”

As Yuri rested his head, he thought about ‘The End’. He thought about going to Victor’s to watch him burn dinner half drunk on red wine. He thought about how delicious the take out Yuuri would have to buy would be. It brought a smile as he drifted off to sleep. For the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to tomorrow.

It didn’t matter how old he was.

He had time.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank the Stupid Idiots and the Crappy Club for Jerks for being super thorough Betas and pushing me hard to get to the standard I wanted to for this fic! I couldn't have done it without you guys.


End file.
